Skin Deep
by Krystina Malfoy
Summary: HG/DM. "We are still in the middle of a war. You know how valuable she is. You know what having her on our side means." AU Post-Hogwarts. Rated M for dark themes.
1. Prologue

Skin Deep

_By: Krystina Malfoy_

XXX

**Author's Note: **If you had been following Treason, I apologize for deleting it. I'm reposting what was supposed to be the real story because (1) I was a coward about the fic's content from my original rough outlines and (2) I realized I didn't like the direction the story I had posted before was going in. Everything will be rewritten and a new plot (mostly) will be established. Because I know—loosely—what will happen in the coming chapters, I feel that it's important for me to inform you at this point that this fanfiction will be very graphic. Intense themes include extreme violence, non-consensual and consensual sex, torture, profanity, etc. Do not continue reading if you find any or all of these things offensive.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot.

XXX

**Prologue**

The Inquisitor sighed.

It had been another long afternoon, filled with what seemed like endless paperwork and hours of relentlessly interrogating dozens of prisoners. While usually there were twenty minute breaks that punctuated the questionings and the sound of quill against parchment every hour, each time he stepped back into the low, square room, he found that the repetition of it all was really beginning to grate on his nerves and that there seemed to be a sort of pressure in his chest, as if the gray walls of the space he occupied were beginning to take a physical toll on him, pressing down against his lungs. It felt vaguely suffocating and not for the first time that day, he wanted out. Naturally, he relished the breaks and dreaded coming back. It was a vicious cycle that would not end for another hour.

As the heavy metal door swung shut again behind a prisoner who had failed to appease both the Inquisitor and his torturers, the former sat himself against the high-backed chair and lowered his quill down onto the table, looking off into the corner of the room that was farthest to him, thinking, his mind spinning off into several different facets that always led him back to the same train of thought.

It could be worse.

He knew that. He could be a Mudblood or a blood-traitor. He could be—and here he shivered, an action that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the square room—one of _them_.

It could be far, far worse.

He questioned enough of them, had seen plenty of them tortured for their lack of knowledge or refusal to give up what information they had _or_ for simply existing, as several Death Eaters had chuckled darkly about not a few days ago, after he'd finished questioning a boy who looked to be about his own son's age. That had done it really—the two boys couldn't have looked any more different, but the probable fact that they were only days apart in age had been what had gotten to the Inquisitor. _Too young_. They always were. The boy's screams had done something to him, too, had latched onto him like a traveling cloak, a second skin, something that he could not shrug off and leave on the coat rack—no. Even long after the hisses of _Crucio_ had left the lips of the Death Eaters who had tended to the boy, long after still the boy's screams had faded into whimpers and moans, and even still, after that, when the Healers had gone in to try to rouse him and found that they could not due to the fact that he had somehow strangled himself with a shoelace he'd managed to smuggle inside the camp.

But at the same time, he felt disconnected to it all somehow, as if he weren't really there, as if he were just an onlooker, a third party whose opinion did not matter.

But the truth, the horrible, unjustifiable, _unfathomable_ truth of it all was that his opinion _did_ matter. It was _everything_, it was law, what it stood for, and it was powerful, powerful in ways he did not want to think about but could not help to. It hung over him and his conscience like a relentless rain cloud, ready to unleash itself upon him at any given, unpredictable moment. His opinion, whether inkling or surety or instinct, whether trickle or flood, sealed the fates of all who were unlucky enough to find themselves there, in that gray and square little room, without so much as a name or a location.

"Feast your eyes on this, Inquisitor," came a lazy, drawled out voice.

The Inquisitor jumped—he had not heard the handle of the door turn or the entrance of Dolohov inside the room. He had brought someone in with him—a girl, struggling, her eyes as wild as her bushy, chestnut-tinted hair.

"What's this?" The Inquisitor said sharply; he did not take well to being snuck up on. His hands held a slight tremor to them as he shuffled some papers on his desk in front of him. The other party in the room seemed not to notice.

Dolohov grinned, flashing nearly all of his yellowed, decaying teeth as he tugged harder on the girl's skinny arm. She gave a sharp cry and fought some more against her captor, but Dolohov seemed to be enjoying the fight and merely tightened his grip on her, his wand remaining hidden within his dark robes and out of sight—thankfully, the Inquisitor thought—for now.

In a detached sort of way, the Inquisitor thought he knew perfectly well why Dolohov was enjoying this so much, aside from the fact that he really was quite a sick bastard that would harm a mouse if it so much as squeaked too loudly. Hardly anyone seemed to have a fight within them these days, as if being shown this room, as if being caught and sent to the prison at all sealed their fate in a way that was irreversible. What was done was done. To them, the prisoners, it was like being handed a gravestone, their name already marked neatly on the stone. All that was in question was the date of death. Pending. Always pending.

"Granger—we've got her. Granger." Dolohov sounded gleeful, and the Inquisitor looked up, studying the girl thoroughly for the first time since Dolohov had pulled her into the room.

She—Granger—looked like hell, and that was putting it mildly. Her eyes were unreadable, but dark and shiny with something the Inquisitor couldn't identify. Anger? It seemed to be related to that emotion but somehow he couldn't get any more precise than that. His gaze lingered once more on her hair, studying the tangled strands that stuck out in every direction possible before his gray hues swept along the emaciated, bruised body. Her clothes were ripped and torn in several places, bits of pale skin peeking through, some areas bloodied, others simply just bruised or jaundiced. She wasn't wearing shoes and she was filthy, smears of dirt streaking her cheeks, neck, and what little he could see of the rest of her skin.

"How can you tell?"

Dolohov's expression of manic happiness only grew more pronounced, something the Inquisitor would have thought impossible. The Death Eater removed his hand from the girl's arm and instead used that same limb to wrap around her tangled hair, making a sort of makeshift ponytail and forcing her head back. The girl gave another broken, throaty moan at the pain of it but said nothing, her eyelids squeezing shut.

"Just caught her in the mountains, near that cave by the lake. You know the one… anyway—" There was a pause as Dolohov pressed his kneecap into her lower back a bit too forcefully in the Inquisitor's opinion, forcing her farther into the room. "There was a whole group of them just sitting there walking around—didn't see us or hear us coming 'til it was too late to reach for their wands. Some of them we killed right away but a few others besides her we brought with us. Figured they might know what happened to their _precious savior_."

These last two words seemed to do something to the girl. She began to struggle again, but instead of stopping when Dolohov let out a rather loud cackle that made even the Inquisitor's arm hair stand up on end, she struggled even harder. Words issued from her throat, flinging themselves out of her mouth like knives. Her eyes were wilder than the Inquisitor had ever seen them, and even, for a tenth of a second, Dolohov looked apprehensive towards the struggling, screaming girl trying to wrestle herself from his grip.

"Don't—you—dare—not—Harry—"

She let out something like a war cry, a high pitched noise that that got caught in her throat upon its release but simply gained momentum after its small stumble. Dolohov lifted an arm to try to block what the Inquisitor could see coming like a freight train, but he was a second too late: she had left a long set of scratches down the side of Dolohov's already misshapen, grotesque face, and they soon began to issue copious amounts of blood in the silence that pressed down upon all three of them after realization made itself known across Dolohov's face. The Inquisitor, hardly a religious man, found himself saying a prayer for the girl as the humor vanished at once from the Death Eater's countenance, replaced now by the kind of contemptuous anger that could kill.

Before the Inquisitor could step in to intervene, Dolohov had whipped out his wand and pointed it straight at the girl's chest. She took a step back, or tried to, and fell. The slap of bone against floor rang out around the enclosed space, echoing off the gray walls. Despite himself, the Inquisitor winced.

"You _dare_ put your filthy hands on me?" Dolohov growled, taking a step towards the fallen girl, wand raised. "I'll do what I did to you in the Department of Mysteries and worse in half a second flat, you filthy, undeserving Mudblood—oh, you thought I'd forgotten?"

For the girl had given something like a shiver at the mention of that place and whatever he had done to her within its walls. The Inquisitor made to stand but Dolohov let out a noise that very closely resembled a growl and he paused, taking in the scene before him with dawning comprehension instead, for Dolohov had lowered his wand, had stowed it away into his robes again and turned his attention back to the girl, who had still not gotten up.

_Get up_, the Inquisitor found himself thinking, knuckles turning white against the wooden arms of his chair as he clutched onto it. _Come on, you foolish girl, get up. _

But she didn't. In fact, she looked to be paralyzed—not physically, but with fear, and as the muscles in Dolohov's face changed as he rethought his torture tactics, she must have seen, must have known what he planned to do to her instead. She began to back away from him on the heels of her hands and feet, scrambling to get up, to put some kind of tangible distance between herself and him, but there was nowhere to go. She looked around wildly for an exit and saw that there was none, though her gaze fell upon the Inquisitor for a split second longer than any other point in the room as she looked around her for an escape point.

The sound of a metal belt hit the floor and then Dolohov was picking it up, the belt, wrapping it around his fist in a way that made the normally inconspicuous item look suddenly lethal, like a noose, and brandished it towards the girl as if it were a sword.

Before she could move again to try to defend herself or at least shield her face from the oncoming blow of the strip of leather, Dolohov had reached out and was now dragging her to her feet, turning her in such a way that her back was now facing both him and the Inquisitor. With a loud _ripping_ noise, the Death Eater had torn what remained of the rest of her blouse almost exactly down the middle, exposing inches of pale, bruised skin. The notches of her spine shone through the thin membrane almost cruelly, each knot a button for pain.

"I don't think that's—" The Inquisitor started to say, but Dolohov gave no notice and slashed the weapon through the air, leather belt acting as a whip as it hit her skin.

The loud, harsh cry that sounded from the girl's lips did what the boy who had been the same age as his own son's had done to him. The Inquisitor braced himself against the edge of the desk and looked away as Dolohov continued to set the belt against her back, the sound of leather on skin giving him an increasingly nauseas feeling in his stomach. He didn't know how long Dolohov unleashed his rage on the girl or how much longer she could keep without passing out from the sheer pain of all of those lashes, but when the Inquisitor had lost count, when he saw specks of blood on the floor and even—he shivered again—a few drops that landed on the documents on his desk, he decided to say something again. He wasn't quite sure whose blood was whose, given that Dolohov's face was still bleeding rather intensely, but he wanted no more of this not following proper procedure nonsense happening right in front of his face.

"Dolohov—"

"Stay out of this, Inquisitor," Dolohov growled but dropped the belt, much to the relief of the agitated Inquisitor, who was taking his seat again in a kind of horrified relief.

However, after a few seconds of the sound of clothing rustling against skin and another whimper issuing from the girl, the Inquisitor glanced up with half a mind to tell Dolohov to hurry it up in bringing her over to the chair that sat opposite him and froze instead at the scene that was unfolding itself before him: Dolohov had rid himself of his pants and underwear and was standing in front of Granger, his large hand wrapped around his arousal as he approached her. She was scrambling around again and looking horrified, as if she were going to cry and vomit at the same time, both of which Dolohov seemed to be reveling in.

"Got nothing to say to me now, have you, lovely?" He grinned toothlessly, maniacally, dropping to his knees and unhanding himself in order to reach out to her. Once he had, he pulled her close, tight; she was struggling again, though much weaker this time, tears coursing down her cheeks as she wordlessly mouthed her complaints and insults. The sound of clothing ripping again pierced the otherwise quiet room and suddenly she wasn't wearing anything below her waist and Dolohov was laughing maniacally again and settling himself between her thighs—

"_Protego_!"

Dolohov was thrown back from the force of the protective spell and a thin, red wall had appeared between the girl and the injured Death Eater, the latter of whom looked absolutely stunned to be on the floor several feet away from the sniffling, crying girl. The Inquisitor, meanwhile, was standing up, back straight, wand raised and pointed directly at Dolohov's chest, his expression fierce and determined and immensely angry.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY IT?" The Inquisitor boomed, his wand steady within his hand.

"I—" Dolohov looked confused, as if the sight of an incensed Inquisitor didn't make sense to him.

"Out, out, GET _OUT_." With another flick of his wand, the Inquisitor had opened the door to the room and had used a wordless hovering charm in order to remove the still pants-less Death Eater from their midst. If the circumstances had been different, he might have laughed at the look of feral rage on Dolohov's face as he tossed him—quite literally—from the room. But as it were, the Inquisitor was _not_ amused and the circumstances were _not_ any different from what they normally were.

After the forced exit of Dolohov the room was quiet save for the sounds of the girl crying, the Inquisitor let out another sigh and found himself anxiously checking the gold watch that hung from his left wrist. Another half hour and he could clock out. However, instead of feeling the kind of relief that he reserved for these kinds of realizations, the Inquisitor felt something much heavier and colder form in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't quite fear, but as he looked at the broken girl on the floor, he realized he was worried about what would happen to her when she was assigned a cell. Dolohov would find her—he knew that. Either to finish what he started or to make up some other morally insane punishment that might end up killing her, he would seek revenge on her, which would put all of them at great risk.

Because while the Inquisitor had questioned whether or not Dolohov had the right girl, he had known her identity from the moment she was forced into the room. It was, in fact, Hermione Granger—Undesirable Number Two—accomplice to Undesirable Number One, finally caught and captured.

_I had to save her_, he thought to himself, setting his wand down on the table and picking up several sheets of parchment again. _If I had let Dolohov finish he would have put us all in jeopardy_.

They had all been given express orders from the Dark Lord himself not to torture first and ask questions later. This had happened several times before, where a prisoner was brought in after being raped or tortured, subjected to jinxes and hexes of the Dark Lord's own creation that were nearly as bad the Unforgivable ones, and had so messed with the person's head that it had been almost impossible to ascertain any valuable information from them, even with the aid of memory spells and truth serums. The Inquisitor knew he had to step in in order to prevent the same thing happening to Hermione's mind—he knew how valuable her memory was.

He allowed another few minutes to slip by before he cleared his throat and spoke, gesturing to her at the same time, his hands indicating that she should stand and take the seat across from him.

"When you are ready."

It didn't take her long. The girl pushed herself up to her knees first, head bowed, breathing hard and heavy and fast, her fingertips pressing into the stone floor as if she were checking to see if it would give under her weight or not. The Inquisitor watched her interestedly but made no comment on her current behavior, allowing her to move at her own pace without a further remark on his part. Then, after another handful of moments, she made to stand up, her knees shaking—almost knocking together, in fact—and gave the Inquisitor a long, searching look of her own as she crossed the room in several steps and tugged on the back of the chair that he had indicated earlier for her to take. Once she was seated, the Inquisitor pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill into the ink jar beside his wand.

"Do you know why you are here, Hermione Granger?"

"Why I'm—"

"Here, yes." He spoke over her smoothly, glancing up from the parchment in order to see her face. She was crying again, her tears cutting clear tracks down her dirty cheeks. Her lips were trembling.

The Inquisitor looked back down, and, after a pause, resumed writing. He spoke again.

"Do you?"

Her silence indicated that she would not speak, but he knew that they both were aware of the answer. The Inquisitor looked up again, saw the resilience peeking out at him from her large, dark eyes, and did not pull his own gaze away from her until after he had finished speaking.

"You have been formally charged with the conspiracy to commit treason, terrorism and sedition, the penalty for which all of these is torture, followed by immediate death by the hand of several Death Eaters at once, or, should he see fit, by the Dark Lord himself."

She let out a sharp gasp. Her eyes were becoming those wild things again, staring at him openly, widely, questioningly. Though there were traces of resistance in the curves of her cheeks, the Inquisitor could see her body almost rocking with tremors, and as she lifted her thin arms to cover her chest, shaking her head back and forth in a sort of wallowing, despaired way. He continued.

"You have one, _and only one_, chance to save your life."

"I don't know where Harry is."

The Inquisitor had expected this. He looked back down again but did not sigh. He checked his watch and then dipped his quill back into the pot of ink and continued writing. He was nearly finished, and he said nothing else between the time she had finished speaking and when he had checked his watch. Once he was finished communing his message, the Inquisitor rolled up the sheet of parchment, sealed it with his wand, and then tapped it twice. It disappeared in his hands.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear. If you do not give us any information that could lead to the capture of Undesirable Number One, we _will_ kill you. And we'll do it without blinking an eye. Your death will send a message. A message the Dark Lord will be all too happy to deliver himself."

Silence.

"Will you cooperate?"

He looked hard at her now.

She—Hermione—seemed to be experiencing an internal struggle. There were moments when the Inquisitor could see things like frustration, anger, and irritation clear as day on the sharp angles of her face, and then next moment those emotions would bleed into thoughtfulness, anguish and distress as she debated her choices and tried to reason with herself as logically as she could given the situation. The Inquisitor found himself praying she'd be smart and keep herself alive. Despite what he had said about her death sending the Potter boy and the people who were still foolish enough to rally themselves around him a message, she was far more valuable to them alive than she was dead. It seemed like a millennium had passed before she spoke again, and the Inquisitor could see it coming for a second time as she lifted her head, could see it in the stubborn set of her shoulders and jaw, could see it coming like he'd seen her hand coming out to injure Dolohov and he had no way of stopping it, no way to protect himself from the blow the one word would cause him.

"No."

He turned away and picked up his quill. Scribbled out another message—though shorter this time—and tapped it once with his wand. Sealed, it disappeared in his hands and he stood up, pushing his chair back with his calves and pocketing his wand as the door flung itself open and several masked figures came into the room and surrounded the resigned, bushy haired girl.

"Then you will die."

To her credit, she did not struggle this time. As the Death Eaters grabbed her arms and escorted her out of the room, Hermione did not cry out or sob, she did not bite or kick. She left regally, as a queen almost, her head held high as she was led to her cell, a place where she would be spending only a few hours' time before her punishments and ultimately, her fate, would be carried out.

The Inquisitor looked down at his watch for the third time. He stared about the room for a long moment and then tore his unfocused gaze away. He shuffled his papers together and stuffed them into the dragon-hide briefcase he normally, proudly, carried with him to work. He pocketed his wand and then exited the claustrophobic little room. He did not look back as the door closed and then sealed itself shut behind him.

As he reached the entrance hall, he heard several raised voices. Apprehension carved itself into the haggard features of his profile but he didn't dare get his hopes up about what those raised voices might mean until he could see for himself. As a familiar, blond head of hair came into his view, something that _was_ relief filled his stomach and expanded outwards. It was warm and pleasant and made him feel temporarily lightheaded.

_Thank Merlin. _

For standing there, soaking wet, fair hair plastered to his forehead, wand raised and pointed at guards that the Inquisitor could barely make the outlines of, was Draco Malfoy. He looked angrier than the Inquisitor had ever seen him, but he knew this would only serve to aid himself and the blond.

"Where is she?" Draco snarled, his handsome features composed into a look of absolute vehemence. "Where the _fuck _is she?"

"Draco." The Inquisitor stepped, finally, into the entrance hall, his voice ringing out quite loudly around the small room that didn't much resemble a hall at all. Its walls—just like the interrogation room—were gray. It was a high ceilinged space and thus could be called a hall for that reason alone, but that was where the similarities ended. The circumference of the room resembled something of an oval, but it was quite small and its corners were rounded and smoothed off. As a result, it was quite cramped with himself, Draco, and the three guards inside of it.

Draco looked to the Inquisitor now, recognition blazing on his pointed face. He didn't lower his wand but kept it focused on the guards while he directed his next words to the Inquisitor.

"I want her, Inquisitor. Where did they put her?"

"I believe these three—" And here the Inquisitor pointed to the singled out guards, one of whom had a ring of ornate-looking keys hanging from his wrist, with his own wand and then looked back to the youngest Malfoy. "—will go to fetch her."

"That's not—"

"On whose orders—"

"GO," The Inquisitor bellowed, his voice echoing within the small room, and without further delay all three guards exited the hall as quickly as they could in order to carry out his command.

"Did they hurt her?" Draco asked as soon as the guards' robes billowed out of sight.

"I couldn't stop them from hurting her after I gave the order, Draco. You know that."

Draco said nothing but he looked more agitated than he did before at the Inquisitor's words. The Inquisitor didn't look at his watch; instead, his solemn gaze rested itself on the boy. He was still holding his wand, his pale fingers clenched around the stick of wood far too tightly to be called comfortable.

"Draco—"

"Don't, alright? Just _fucking don't._"

The Inquisitor obeyed. Neither of them spoke again until they heard footsteps approaching, and then, suddenly, there they were: the three guards, one with a bloody lip, Hermione, Dolohov, and another masked Death Eater who had their hands clamped tightly to the girl's biceps. Hermione looked confused but as soon as she saw Draco she began to struggle, and Dolohov looked absolutely mutinous. He had yet to see the Malfoy heir standing there in the hall. He had eyes only for the Inquisitor.

"Inquisitor, I don't bloody give a damn if—"

"You will release her on _my orders_, Dolohov." Draco stepped forward, an action that threw the majority of his face into shadow. It made him look a lot more menacing than he already did, and the Death Eater looked daggers at the twentysomething boy but said nothing, apparently rendered speechless by his presence. The Inquisitor, who had taken a step back from the group at large and whose features were also hidden in shadow, looked vaguely amused at the proceedings but chose not to say anything as well.

For a moment, nobody moved.

"Release the Mudblood. Now." A spasm of something flitted across Draco's face but it was gone before the Inquisitor could give a name to what that something had been. To his utmost relief, the masked Death Eater who had been holding the girl let her go and took a step back. Hermione rubbed her arms, looking fairly surprised to have been released without more of a struggle.

Draco spoke again, this time directing his words at Hermione. He was still clutching his wand but something about his features had softened a fractional amount and the Inquisitor once again experienced that same feeling of warm relief in the location of his navel.

"You are to come with me. I don't think you'd be so stupid as to try to get away, but I warn you now that if you think you are smart enough to be able to do so, I _will_ come after you, and you will not have known true pain until that moment." Draco's voice was low and silky, and if the Inquisitor hadn't heard his words, he would have thought he was speaking to a lover. Next, Draco summoned a long, thick black traveling coat from nowhere with the aid of his wand and beckoned for the girl to come near him. She did, but not first without throwing him the most contemptuous glare that she could muster.

Draco settled the coat onto her small shoulders and then began to button up the apparel as if she were a child. It seemed that Hermione thought this as well because she made to open her mouth in order to tell him that she was quite capable of dressing herself but there must have been something in Draco's expression that told her to keep her mouth shut. After he had done up her coat, he turned back and faced the lot of them, his words now directed towards them all.

"Thank you for _temporarily_ holding her here for me. You will be rewarded most handsomely for your service to myself and to my household." At these last few words, Draco raised his wand yet again and pointed it directly at Dolohov, who, thinking he would be rewarded now, could not conceal the look of greed and eagerness on his face. But next moment his expression had shifted to an entirely different extreme, one of pain and agony and utter torment, and then he was on his knees, screaming, and then all fours, still screaming, his features twisted…

The three guards and the unknown Death Eater stepped back and away, disappearing down the hallway while Draco, Hermione and the Inquisitor Apparated from the very spots they stood in to the entrance point that lay directly outside of the prison.

Dolohov was still screaming when they Apparated.

It was almost night. They were outside now and it was raining heavily. Within seconds all three of them were soaked to the bone. Teeth chattering as the small group made their way down the gravel road so that they could again Apparate from the grounds and to their individual destinations, the Inquisitor found himself looking back over his shoulder, rain water dripping from his brows and into his eyes. The sign that hung over the prison was temporarily lit up by a bolt of lightning that cut across the sky and the Inquisitor could make out the words perfectly, though he had memorized by heart long ago what the sign said. He couldn't help the shiver—which had nothing to do with the icy rain—that raced down his spine as the metal-wrought sign flashed behind his eyelids each time he blinked.

He tried to shake his head to clear the words from his brain, but they remained branded on the inside of his eyelids like a tattoo.

_For the Greater Good. _

XXX


	2. I

Skin Deep

_By: Krystina Malfoy_

XXX

**Chapter One**

_Two months later_

The sizable plot of land on which Malfoy Manor lay looked more pruned than it had for the past few months. It was almost spring, and the manicured lawns were finally beginning to bloom with an assortment of flowers that Narcissa Malfoy had instructed hired landscapists to plant back in early autumn. The blossoms were peeking up from the ground now, swatches of soft blues, pristine pinks and honeyed golds flashing in the gentle warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. Another two days and their growth could be advanced with the aid of gardening spells—just in time for the dinner party that would be taking place that very weekend. It was an affair that Draco's mother had been planning a bit obsessively for the past month or so, calling in decorators and small squadrons of witches who claimed to be experts in the fields of dinner party etiquette and decor.

Needless to say, Draco was not at all happy with the fact that there were _constantly_ witches and wizards whom he didn't know roaming about the Manor with magical tape measures that took measurements by themselves—twice Draco had been hit in the head by these instruments and twice he had seen to it that those tape measures would never work properly again, much to the chagrin of his obsessive-compulsive mother and the small band of magical decorators who were trying to prepare everything in time for the dinner party.

"Draco," Narcissa had said rather patronizingly when he had stormed through the Manor the second time this had happened, eyes watering from being knocked about in the head, "Stop yelling. You'll give everyone a migraine. It'll all be over soon."

_That _conversation had happened more than three weeks ago and Draco, incensed as ever at the fact that there were strangers prowling about _his_ house, had seen to it almost immediately after speaking to his mother that there was _no_ _bloody way in fucking hell_ that he would allow this kind of behavior to continue, especially as unsupervised as it was. So, unbeknownst to Narcissa, Draco had taken matters into his own hands and had threatened the decorating committee with every jinx, potion and hex that he knew of if they continued to treat the Manor as if it belonged to them. They had had the audacity to look as though he'd personally offended them. _In his own house_. But Draco had found amusement in threatening the rather harmless decorators; it had been as if he'd been siphoning off his own frustrations into the group of adults who just didn't seem to know any better.

_His own frustrations_.

Draco knew about being frustrated, so much so that he rather thought he could write a book on everything about it except for how to actually _deal_ with it. His obvious answer and solution was to just get as far away as he physically could from the situation at hand before he did something that was even more destructive than yell himself hoarse—causing Narcissa to reduce herself to tears, as he had done on several occasions in the past concerning the dinner party. He knew well enough not to directly confront her unless he wanted to lose his temper. He would not deny that he loved his mother very much—the time for being embarrassed about that had long since passed, but she had become so weak since Lucius—Draco refused to call him Father—had died the previous year, walking around the Manor and touching the things Lucius had touched and enjoyed and collected himself for the estate, murmuring his name under her breath and crying behind her palms. Draco couldn't stand any of it and normally acted as though he did not notice and furthermore, that it did not bother him.

That afternoon found him as annoyed and frustrated as ever. Narcissa was currently oohing and awing over tablecloths and cutlery with several of the witches who had been hired to aid her in planning the dinner affair and Draco, knowing better than to start a row with her, found himself dangerously close to excusing himself to spend the rest of the afternoon outside and away from their neurotic party planning. He was only there to make sure she didn't pick out anything atrocious or tacky. He could normally concede that his mother had fine taste for the most part, but there was no denying the fact that the event happening Saturday night was important and he would be damned if he and Narcissa gave even one of them the slightest thing to taunt them about.

"Look how lovely these are, Narcissa," said a stout little witch with a pixie haircut and rosy cheeks. She pointed to several samples of periwinkle tablecloths with patterns etched in curling designs of gold and silver with the end of her wand. "These will go just _perfectly_ with the dress robes you're planning to wear, don't you think?"

Narcissa's gaze was pulled to the samples as soon as the witch had begun to speak. "I rather think you're right, Ophelia. Do any of these come in the boxes you showed me earlier?"

"I think this one does," said Ophelia excitedly, the small hat on her head wobbling precariously from her excitement as she pointed to a particularly loud periwinkle and gold swatch.

Draco, who had been studiously trying to ignore this conversation by placing his hands over his face, chanced a glance at the samples laid out before Narcissa and tried his best to suppress a groan, to no avail.

"Mother, you can't actually be _serious_," he nearly growled, lowering his hands completely and curling his fingers into loose fists. "How are they going to take us seriously if we have them dine on _those_?"

Narcissa lifted her pale brows in her son's direction and pursed her lips together, as if she were actually thinking over the choice again. Ophelia, sensing a could-be change in heart, leaned closer to the swatches and pointed at the periwinkle one _again_, much to Draco's annoyance and distaste.

"Oh, _no_, I think they'll be right impressed by your choice in color, Narcissa. See how the silver—"

But Narcissa seemed to agree with Draco at last about the color scheme. She shook her head at Ophelia and frowned slightly at the offending swatches before turning her gaze away.

"I think he's quite right, Ophelia. Perhaps something a little more… tasteful? That is to say, do you have anything, perhaps, in dark green or purple?"

Well, it was certainly better than periwinkle. Draco knew not to push his mother further on the color choices and proceeded _not_ to do just that as Ophelia, smart enough at least to sense defeat on her own part, glumly pulled out a different swatch board with the colors Narcissa had requested.

However, his waning tolerance seemed to run out as soon as Narcissa started up _again_ by asking to see a catalogue from a business that specialized in entire sets of customizable eatery for eight or more packed into a box the size of Draco's head (they still hadn't decided on a tablecloth), he found himself—and not for the first time—running a pale hand through his hair out of pure exasperation and then stood up from the dining room table to exit the Manor as quickly as he could after he'd gotten his shoes on.

He had settled himself beneath the awning in the back of the large house, but because it was just after midday the sun was out and shining down rather brilliantly onto the grounds, and he could feel its subtle heat through the thin material of the canopy. It was something that he knew he could fix with magic but decided not to. Winter had been especially brutal this past year, and Draco welcomed the promising warmth that the spring and summer months would undoubtedly bring. He stretched himself out on one of several chaise lounges dotting the patio before resting his head back onto his folded arms and closing his eyes against the elusive glare of the sun.

The subject of being frustrated made its way into his thoughts again—that he was and that he couldn't help himself—and before he could even begin to think about _not_ helping himself, a pair of large brown eyes appeared in the forefront of his mind, as though the two were directly related to each other. Draco tried to direct his train of thought down another less-beaten path, but once she'd appeared it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. Because he was alone outside, he allowed these images to come after opening his eyes rather suddenly and sitting up, using the heels of his large hands to rub at his temples, as if physical force would drive a certain bushy-haired girl from his mind. Unfortunately, the only thing this seemed to be accomplishing was cause his skin to chafe, and Draco immediately pulled his hands from his head and shot a rather moody look out toward the grounds in defeat before the back of his head hit the padding of the chair again.

They hadn't had an actual conversation in weeks, Draco and Hermione. He didn't think it was because she was afraid of him—she had _punched_ him in the bloody face back in third year for Merlin's sake—but rather because she didn't _know_ him now and to her mind, he knew, she definitely couldn't trust him. Not that she had before, but Draco could tell when he'd gone to free her from Nurmengard that she hadn't expected to be saved by _him_. Hadn't expected that he'd do _anything_ like that for _her_, of all people. And ultimately, perhaps, that was it. She was probably working out why it was that Draco had come to her rescue, why he had taken her and brought her back to the Manor where she was forced to do his and his mother's bidding day in and day out. It was just like her to try to find a logical reason behind Draco's actions, as if that would solve everyone's problems.

Draco gave a bitter laugh. Its hollowness echoed.

_Logical_. As if what he felt could be broken down into something that could be rationalized and explained with neat little equations and studied by the masses.

What he felt concerning _her_ wasn't logical or rational at all—it was dangerous, the thing of it, the very idea, and he knew it had no rhyme or reason to it. It had broken free from the rest of him like a phantom limb or an alien organ, and he could not get it back despite trying, vainly, to study it from its roots. Maybe he had a hard time studying its origins simply because he hadn't known the exact answer to the question of _when_; simply that it seemed as if, one day, he always had.

It wasn't love. He knew that. He had never thought that and he wouldn't start that nonsense up now. He wasn't quite sure that he was even capable of loving someone in that sort of intricate, selfless way, but Draco found that he cared far too much about her safety to not put a name on it at all. For Merlin's sakes, she was still _Granger_. He wasn't stupid. She was inferior with her dirty blood and still too much of a know-it-all for her own good with ridiculously bushy hair and a penchant for acting every bit the selfless, Gryffindor type.

Draco scowled and continued to stare moodily out over the expansive grounds that sat behind the Manor.

He wasn't stupid. That was the thing of it, really. He was quite intelligent. That status of her blood, the question of how clean or unclean it was no longer bothered him. Hadn't for quite some time, really. He thought it ridiculous that it was what Voldemort cared about most after he'd taken over. He was disgusted, really.

Knew that this idea was considered as treason.

Knew he could be killed for it.

Draco knew plenty about the power of ideas. He'd seen his fair share of people over the last several years being tortured or killed in order to defend them. He's seen people kill in the name of an idea. He'd seen a world changing because of them. He knew how dangerous they could be. He knew how _hopeful_ they could be. He knew how they had the power to scare even the bravest person or bring courage forth from the weakest. That was the problem, then, wasn't it? Ideas themselves were crazy, risky and hazardous to all that rallied themselves around one. But they were so hopeful.

And that was what they all needed.

That was what _he_ needed.

And so. Hermione. Granger. Mudblood. No—

Hermione.

He _cared_.

Bad enough that he had gone to that miserable prison, bad enough that he had pulled an Unforgivable on Dolohov—not that that mattered so much to him. Ideas and all. Bad enough that after, when they had gotten back to Malfoy Manor and he'd taken the coat from her and she had looked him, point-blank, in the face and said _Why_, he had looked right back at her and said nothing. It had infuriated her, the not answering, and he had been almost entertained by the look of pure loathing on her face when he had dismissed her. If she had an inkling at all of the chaos of emotion that he felt just by being in her presence, she probably would slap him again. Or try to escape. Neither of which he would allow to happen without retribution on his part.

However, the idea of physically hurting her did not appeal to him at all and Draco had done and would continue to do what he could to avoid it, though he had suspicions that that would soon come to an end at the dinner party that upcoming weekend. The wizards who were coming were expecting him to treat her just as badly as they themselves treated their own prisoners, if not more so, given that it was Harry Potter's best friend living within the walls of his own home. It would put both himself and his mother in a very delicate position if he refused to lay a hand on her. Perhaps if he warned her beforehand…? No. It was better, he knew, not to assume that things would lead down that path. Besides, as much as he cared for Granger, his family still came first. He would do what he had to.

Eventually.

Draco opened his eyes. He wasn't too sure if she knew what would be required of her at the dinner on Saturday, and he felt that now was as good a time as any to inform her of her duties concerning the guests themselves. The sun was at a lower point in the sky as he stood up and stretched his back, his spine cracking in a rather satisfying way as he returned to the Manor.

Thankfully, Narcissa was nowhere to be found. Draco shoved his pale hands into the front pockets of his gray trousers and took the service stairs hidden behind a narrow door in the gleaming kitchen in order to avoid her in case she was in the drawing room. When he'd reached the second floor, he slowed his pace and found himself listening hard for the sounds of footsteps or conversation—there were none of either. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted when he finally found her, Draco rested his hand on the door knob that belonged to her door and gave the mechanism a sharp twist. He never knocked.

He was speaking as he stepped into the room.

"Concerning the dinner—"

Draco stopped.

The room was empty.

His eyes narrowed as he swept his gaze around the confines of her small room. The bed was neatly made, sheets pulled tightly at the corners and edges of the mattress and she wasn't _fucking there_. Her lack of presence made the room feel even smaller than it already was, and colder. He didn't like it, and he did not appreciate that she wasn't in her room when he needed her to be.

Draco swore under his breath and proceeded to slam the door shut behind him as he left. He was just about to tear off into another direction of the Manor when the tell-tale signs of running water reached his ears. His gaze instantly snapped to the bathroom door on the other side of the wide hall, directly across from Hermione's room and before he could stop himself, Draco crossed to the door and pressed his ear against the painted wood, listening.

He heard a very faint sigh and knew, as he always did, that it was her. There was a second's pause and then Draco looked first to his left, gaze on the far end of the hallway, and then to his right, studying the closed doors on either wall before taking a step back, away from the bathroom door. He was very still, knowing he had a decision to make—or at least, for his conscience, making it seem as if he had a decision to make. It was no contest, no battle of wills there. One side always won. He never fought it. Hadn't for weeks. Was not about to start now. Draco was suddenly acutely aware of how fast and hard his heart was beating against his sternum; how loudly he was inhaling and exhaling.

Could she hear him?

He took another step back and then, thinking so fast that his next actions were a blur, had entered the room to his right—a guest bedroom that was seldom used—and closed the door as quietly as he could behind him.

Draco looked around the room with a mild sort of interest, but he hadn't come in there to ogle the decorations, or lack thereof.

He looked to the wall on his left. The sound of running water was still audible and with a kind of repressed excitement, Draco pulled his wand out of the back pocket of his trousers and held it out in front of him, tip pointed at the wall. He murmured an incantation under his breath. Slowly, as if the wall were crumbling in on itself, a sizable rectangle formed within the paint that showed clearly the inside of the steamy bathroom. Once he was satisfied with the size of the one-way mirror, Draco stowed his wand away and took another step closer.

It was sick, what he was doing, and he knew that. Fuck, _he_ was so goddamned sick. The sickest. He clenched his hands into fists as he saw her begin to disrobe, pulling the loose knot of her robe undone, slowly, as if she knew she had an audience. But she didn't know. Draco had made sure of that, had studied this spell until he could recite it in his dreams for days and then, when he had _known_ that he'd perfected it, had tried it out for the first time a little more than a month ago.

He'd been doing this for a month.

He was _so_ fucking _sick_.

For a second, Draco looked away.

The tendons in his hands were standing out from his pale skin, and he wondered, vaguely, about the anatomy of hands before the sound—he had learned to incorporate that as well—of her robe hitting the floor caught his attention and then he looked up because he always did, because he didn't know any better when he should have, because he didn't fucking _want_ to know any better and wanted, instead, to stay absolutely oblivious to how fucked up the whole goddamn thing was, and because her body, _fuck_, her body, it was perfect, it was glorious, it was—in these secret moments in which he watched her and she had no idea—his.

Her hair always caught his attention first, but he preferred it that way. Her hair, still as bushy and ridiculous as it had been at Hogwarts, hung unkempt around her face like a lion's mane, her curls undefined and frizzed out—the way he liked it. He wondered if his hands would get caught in the perpetually tousled curls if he ever had the chance to get close enough to her and touch them. They were beautiful really: the color of dark honey, swinging against her thin shoulders as she dipped her foot into the bath full of what Draco assumed was hot, sudsy water.

That would draw him to her skin. She had healed up almost completely since he'd brought her to the Manor, and had seen to it that one of the house-elves was tending to her bruises and cuts around the clock for the first week after her initial arrival.

Draco remembered the first time he'd seen Hermione get into the bath before the proper salves had been applied to her damaged skin, had seen the way each bruise and cut had stood out on her pale frame like red paint on a white wall, had seen the way she had winced and bit down on her lip to keep her pained moans as quiet as she could when lowering herself into the large bathtub. At that point, Draco had experienced a kind of rage he'd never encountered before. It had been blinding and white hot, something he could reach for and hold in his hands, a great movable _thing_ that had expanded outward from the center of his chest, engulfing everything within its radius. For a tense, blind moment, Draco had not been able to control it. Fuck, he had been _furious_—so furious that he had been seconds away from Apparating back to Nurmengard and finishing off Dolohov himself. His magic had pulsed right at the tips of his fingers and it had literally taken every ounce of physical and mental strength that he possessed not to give in to baser instinct and suppress his wrath.

The moan that came from Hermione now was not born from pain or discomfort. The way her brows pulled together, the way the corners of her mouth arched upwards—it was stunning, it was _everything_, these moments that he stole when he could view her like this, unknowing to the other party that watched her with his mouth slightly agape, his eyes dark and full of want. Though he knew it would not bring him any closer to her, Draco found himself lifting a hand and resting his fingertips against the rectangle through which he viewed the unaware witch.

Just as she was settling the majority of her naked body into the basin full of water, Draco caught an eyeful of everything else that he didn't linger on before—the small breasts with rose-pink nipples at their centers; the expanse of unblemished, pale navel; the feathery tufts of hair at her pubis. Draco looked away again but could not resist in the next instant. Now that she was in the tub, most of her body hidden by the soapy water, he didn't feel as guilty for watching her. For _wanting_ her.

He was _so fucking sick_.

She leaned her neck against the edge of the tub and sat there for a few moments, eyes closed. Then, slowly again, as if she knew he was watching, she began to wash herself. Not for the first time, or the tenth, or the twelfth, Draco wanted to be the one who ran the damp cloth along her slight curves and wonder in the glory of her body as she let out more satisfied moans and directed him to certain places that she couldn't reach herself. Gods, he wanted to _inhabit _her, just for the sake of touching her skin, making her sigh his name.

It was this fantasy of the absolute impossible that brought back a certain amount of sense into his thick skull. His hand grew slack against the wall and without stopping to think if that was what he really wanted—because of course he fucking didn't, _of course_—Draco reached for his wand and waved it twice at the rectangle cut-out in the wall. It disappeared, melting back into the paint and leaving no evidence that it had ever been there in the first place.

Then, curling his long-fingered hands into fists once more, Draco let out a sigh of frustration and spun away from the wall on his heel only to collapse onto the small, narrow bed that sat by the only window in the sparsely-decorated room. He could feel his features twist themselves into an emotion he had not allowed himself to feel in years—anguish. Pure, undiluted, and so powerful that it made him temporarily lightheaded, Draco's face crumpled under the strain of that one emotion and he did not resurface until he heard her cross the hall to go back into her room.

It was then that he managed to pull himself together. His face relaxed, as did his hands, and by the time he was closing the door to the room he'd inhabited behind him in favor of seeking out Hermione's room instead, all signs of emotional strain had left him.

Again, he did not knock when he opened her door.

Ah—

But holy fucking _Christ_, she was perfect.

Hermione was standing near the long, low bureau in her room, bent over at the waist, a thick cotton towel wrapped about her thin figure with another enveloping her hair as she searched for clothes to wear for the remainder of the waning day. The sun was positioned directly behind her, its buttery light outlining the shape of her body. Even though she had three square meals a day since coming to Malfoy Manor, she was still a lot thinner than Draco remembered her to be at Hogwarts.

Still, he thought she was _magnificent_.

For a split second that he knew she would not notice, Draco's features were shining thickly with lust.

Instead of saying anything, he cleared his throat.

The effect was instantaneous. Hermione gave a small jump and stood, her attention now directed to the door. To him.

There was a sudden tightness in his chest when their eyes met. She had not completely dried off. Beads of water coated her shoulders, collarbones and the tops of her arms while several thick, damp curls were plastered to her cheeks. The tip of one of these locks of light brown hair was dangerously close to her mouth. When she parted her lips to speak, it was all he could focus on. There was an involuntary twinge of desire in his groin.

_Fuck_.

"Don't you knock?" There was a hardness to her expression that did nothing except amuse Draco. His eyes lazily moved from her mouth to her eyes.

"My house, my rules. And I really don't consider you as someone whom the rules of knocking apply to, Mudblood." The last word was heavier in his mouth than the others, but he was getting better all the time at saying the expletive without showing his extreme distaste for the noun.

There was a bead of water running slowly down the side of her face, from her temple to her jaw. Draco leaned his weight into the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he focused all of his efforts on trying _not_ to notice.

"What do you want?" Her eyes were narrowed into suspicious slits as she looked at him. Her distaste, her lack of trust, Merlin, they were all so _obvious_. While he didn't expect anything more from her in either department, seeing it written out so clearly on her face did not sit well with him at all.

Draco tried to ignore the offset beating of his heart.

"To talk to you, obviously."

_That fucking drop of water. _

It had almost reached her jaw.

"Just say it."

"Manners, Mudblood." To accentuate this command, Draco once again removed his wand from his pants' pocket. He didn't point it at her, but he did finger the long, thin stick of wood as his gaze remained on her face. Her eyes, meanwhile, had landed on the could-be weapon in his hand.

_His_ eyes were on that drop of water. He watched it stop at her jaw and it hung there for several painful seconds, stuck, before she tilted her head very slightly to the side and it fell right onto her collarbone, sliding quickly towards the start of the towel and then disappearing from his view altogether. Impossibly, helplessly, he thought then of following that trail of water with his tongue.

This temporarily shut off all other thought processes. Draco clutched onto his wand and thanked Merlin that that drop of water had disappeared, but he could not help but to think that the _rest_ of her as a whole still looked entirely too tempting.

Hermione had taken a careful seat at the edge of the bed.

"I thought it best that we go over what is expected from you at the dinner party taking place this Saturday evening."

"Dinner party?" Her brows pulled together as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

Draco couldn't help it. He took a step towards her, still fingering his wand and inhaling the floral scent of her just-washed skin at the same time.

_Her fucking skin. _

"Don't act as if you're uninformed. My mother spoke to you about it last week, if I remember correctly. She gave you a list of things to prepare."

"Then what was it that _you_ wanted?"

She smelled so good. Too good.

_Focus_.

"First—"

And then he was standing right in front of her, so quickly that she blinked, caught off-guard by his sudden inescapable proximity. She looked as if she might hit him but Draco, having the element of surprise on his side, was quicker. With his free hand, he clasped her wrists together as he directed his wand to the hollow of her throat with the other. Hermione's eyes widened a decent amount when she realized just how firmly he had her bound.

"I want to make several things perfectly clear, Mudblood." His voice had taken on that almost seductive, velvety tone again. The grays of his eyes had darkened too, to that ominous stormy color that resembled the promise of rain. "Do not speak to me as if we were equals. As far as myself and the _rest_ of the Wizarding world are concerned, you are beneath everyone. You are scum. You are _nothing_."

Her skin was so _fucking soft_.

Did she know how much these lies cost him?

Her features grew more severe as her hate for him flashed like lightening within her brown irises. Draco ignored this and continued to speak.

"I do not take well to being spoken to as you have done by _anyone_, and I will absolutely not fucking tolerate behavior like that from _you_, of all people. If you remember correctly, _Mudblood_, _I_ brought you here. _I_ saved your pathetic excuse of a life. It is with _my_ money that you have a roof over your head, food to eat, and clothes to put on your ungrateful back." Draco was leaning in closer and Hermione was frozen, her eyes unblinking but also frustratingly unreadable and the scent of her skin was in his nostrils, it was _everywhere_, it was in his mouth, it was all he could fucking taste, all he could think about—

"Do you understand?" His grip on her tightened. The tip of his wand touched her skin. She flinched at the contact and then, very slowly, as if she thought he would hurt her, nodded her head.

The faintest hint of a smirk touched his lips, but Draco did not pull away or let her go. Not yet. Not when she was so fucking close—as close as she probably would ever be. Not when her skin was as soft as it was, when it smelled this good, when he felt as if he began and ended with the scent of her.

"Now, concerning the dinner. You will not talk back to me, my mother, or our guests." Draco watched Hermione as she set her jaw, nostrils flaring with suppressed agitation. He could feel her shaking. "If I ask or tell you to do something for me, you will obey without complaint. If my mother asks or tells you to do something for her, you will obey without complaint. And if any of our guests—"

"Ask or tell me to do something," Hermione concluded, loathing in her voice, "I will obey without complaint."

"Wrong."

Her eyes snapped back to his face.

Draco prodded the tip of his wand into the still-damp skin of her throat—even this part of her was enticing. He ignored her wince.

"If any of our guests ask or tell you to do something, you look first to _me_ for approval." Draco tightened his fingers around her wrists again and leaned in. He was so close now that he could make out the light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose. So close that he needed only to come just in inch closer and palm the back of her neck and bring her mouth down to his own. He was so fucking close that he wasn't even looking for a way out. "No one else."

"I look to you first for approval," Hermione repeated, her own gaze dark with some unidentifiable emotion. "No one else." Draco could see her choosing her next words carefully. "Is that… everything?"

"I should think so. Remember to be on your best behavior, Mudblood." The scent of her skin, the feel of it, fuck, it was killing him. He couldn't stop touching her. How was he going to stop fucking touching her? "You're representing my family and these are very important people coming. I was able to take you from Nurmengard without too much of a hassle, but if you fuck up on Saturday, I can't guarantee the same outcome."

She nodded her head minutely. Hermione didn't look frightened, but then, Draco knew she wasn't stupid. It was how things were now. How they had been for the last three years. He would do what he could, of course he would, but he didn't know how much—or how little—that would amount to in the end.

He was still too close.

The next few seconds seemed to move in slow motion. Hermione was looking at him and Draco couldn't be bothered now to even think about looking anywhere else but at her. His fingers loosened from her wrists. She didn't move. She didn't even seem to realize that he had released her. Next, Draco slid the tip of his wand from the almost translucent membrane of skin adhered to her throat down in a straight path to the center of her chest. It was here where Draco gave pause, as something in Hermione's dark eyes revealed itself to him. It was gone in another eighth of a second but he had caught it.

And he had been wrong: she _was _afraid.

Draco relished in that. He knew that if she feared _something_, no matter how little or how much, that fear would keep her safe. Or as safe as she could be, given the circumstances.

Hermione was still looking at him. While she had concealed the panic from him, her eyes were still dark with something, some unnamed living, breathing _thing_ that continued to cause his groin to twitch with suppressed need. He knew he needed to leave her in order to take care of himself, but Draco first did something else—

One more small entity.

The tip of his wand was still resting against her damp skin. Draco performed a drying spell by way of wordless magic and then slowly began to move his wand across her flesh. Hermione had given another startled jump at the warmth that was flowing seamlessly over her skin by aid of the wand, no doubt stunned by his current actions.

Draco took no notice of this.

The temperate air that issued from the wand's tip continued to dry her skin as he sought the places on her body he longed to touch the most: the soft 'c' of her shoulders, her clavicle, throat and jaw. Briefly he pressed the magical tool to the prominent curves of her angel bones. It was almost too much for him when the skin on these areas of Hermione began to pimple over with Goosebumps but again he outwardly pretended as though this had no effect on him at all—yet wondering all the time if she could hear how furiously loud his heart was beating within the cavity of his chest.

He spent quite some time at the sides of her neck and then progressed downwards, again, to her torso. Somehow he did not become overly greedy. He did not try to remove the towel that was wrapped around her body but found that he couldn't _not_ remove the one from her hair.

The soft intake of air that passed through Hermione's lips did not go unnoticed by Draco once her soaked curls had tumbled from towel to shoulders. He resisted the urge to touch them with his hands, both hating and loving the fact that it was _his_ wand that got to brush against her hair. It did not take as long as he would have liked for the stream of air to dry her tresses, and when he had finally removed all traces of water from her skin and hair, Draco sat back on his knees and pulled his wand away.

He was suddenly aware of how _quiet_ it was in that small room and how dark and wide Hermione's eyes were as they took him in. Draco muttered the counter-spell to stop the stream of hot air from flowing out of his wand and then finally raised himself up to his full height. Hermione was looking at him still, her lips slightly parted and her cheeks holding a soft rosiness to them that Draco took as being a side-effect of his drying her off.

The scent of her skin was not made any less intoxicating from his selfish behavior. Draco thought that karma had one hell of a fucking sense of humor. He took a step back and then another, forfeiting now to breathe through his nose, but the floral tang of her settled itself on his tongue and made it impossible for him to taste anything else.

He had to get the fuck out of that godforsaken room before he really lost his mind.

"I know you're not stupid, Mudblood, but if you're still unclear about your responsibilities for Saturday night, ask my mother."

And without so much as a backwards glance, Draco left and nearly slammed the door shut behind him. He put a floor between himself and Hermione before he allowed himself the chance to think properly. He was in the dining room, bent over the gleaming cherry wood table with his palms resting flat against its top before he realized where it was that his feet had carried him.

_He_ wasn't stupid, either.

He could fool her, could fool his mother, and could hopefully be able to fool the Ministry officials coming over to the Manor that weekend about his feelings concerning _her_, but Draco could not fool himself, regardless of whatever motives or reasons he put behind his actions.

Everything he did, _everything_ he had been doing for the past two years he had done because of or for her and while he knew that it wasn't love, wasn't anything so tragic or so _weak_, it was just as dangerous, just as fucking _sick_ and as foolish as actually being in love with her would be to him. He was putting himself in danger by allowing himself to feel what he was feeling and his way—the Slytherin way—had been to always save his own neck before anyone else's. If anyone else's at all.

But now—

He no longer cared whether his neck was saved or not. He had chosen his fate when he allowed himself to feel anything other than hate for Hermione Granger. Without his even realizing it he was putting her first, thinking of her _first_ before giving himself a second thought at all.

Draco knew he should have cared more about whether or not having feelings of some kind for her would end up getting him killed in the end, but the most he felt towards himself was anger for letting it progress as far as it had, for allowing it to choke him like the smell of her fucking skin did, for making him a slave to it. And he felt angry at her too, for being as tempting as she was, for crawling under his skin and making a home there among his cells and blood vessels without even realizing what it was that she was doing. But each look of loathing, each harsh word she spoke against him, it did nothing except make him want her _more_. That was what he wanted. More. Always, _always _more. Ever the masochist he was, but so be it. He didn't want to be anything else.

Because mostly what he felt for her was a need so intense it left him slightly delirious, wiped out, aching, and parched. And he couldn't fucking stop.

And he didn't want to.

And she, normally all-knowing, or at least, thought herself to be, had no idea. And if he had any say in the matter at all, she never would.

Ever.

XXX

**Author's note: **I just wanted to thank those of you that have reviewed, favorited and followed this story so far. Trust me when I say that it's _very _encouraging and gets me extra excited to write more content and to write it faster for you all. Thank you again. –K

XXX


	3. II

Skin Deep

_By: Krystina Malfoy_

XXX

**Chapter Two**

The sounds of someone having a rather heated argument stopped Hermione in her tracks that Saturday morning; the week's washing bundled up tightly in her arms. She was on her way to clean the soiled clothing and bed sheets as Narcissa had instructed her to do not twenty minutes previously—but Hermione, retaining still the habit of not being able to keep her nose out of other people's business that she had developed at Hogwarts, could not help but to lean her ear into the closed door while the tips of her fingers dug into the wrapped up laundry.

"…Don't you _listen_? I see no reason…"

Hermione took a large step back at the sound of the all-too familiar voice, her incisors biting down into her lip to stifle the gasp that tried to part itself from her throat when she realized who was speaking.

Malfoy.

She knew she ought to get away _this instant_ and finish her tasks before Narcissa or one of the witches on her planning committee turned up to admonish her, though they were always much kinder to her than she knew they were supposed to be and certainly more kind than _he_ was. Merlin help her if Malfoy thought to open the door right at that moment. As she stayed there by the shut off entryway, half listening, her mind—without so much as a warning—took her back to just two days ago, when he had come into her room and then…

Dried her off.

It had been so simple a thing, really, his taking his wand and performing that drying spell on her. But it wasn't so much that he had, Hermione told herself, clutching tighter onto the bundle of laundry to be done, it was the question of _why_. Surely he had gained nothing from that small act of…well, kindness. Because it had been _kind_. And Hermione had not known what to do with kind behavior from him.

She much preferred it when he called her 'Mudblood' and nastier names than that, and barged in on her without knocking and shooting her filthy looks and threatening her with magic. She could handle Malfoy when he was nasty to her, because it gave her something to do, something to build her defenses up against. But a _kind_ Draco Malfoy was not something she wanted to deal with at all—she didn't know _how_ to deal with a kind Malfoy.

Hermione, not knowing, had been so dumbfounded by this behavior from him that she had simply sat there on the bed, watching him, not speaking, trying to come up with a logical explanation for his actions but she had frustratingly found none, other than the distinct feeling that perhaps he was _trying_ to get her to trust him.

But that theory had only brought her more strife. _Why_? They hated each other. There was no reason, none at all, for Malfoy to want to help her in any way, shape, or form. That small act of kindness from him made her feel jittery and altogether uneasy. There was _no reason_ for him to treat her as kindly as he had. What was more disturbing, still, was that he had seemed so earnest about it. So…selfless. As if that had been the easiest thing he'd ever done. And that wasn't the Draco Malfoy she knew. Not at all. He couldn't possibly have turned over a new leaf, could he? No—that wasn't possible. She remembered the spiteful Malfoy who had taken points from her House just because, according to him, she had dirty blood. So why had he done that small service to her? What did he want? What did he hope to gain? What were his motives? These questions and more dizzied Hermione's thoughts until there was a distinct pounding behind her temples.

Malfoy's voice thankfully cut through her inner turmoil.

"I don't give a fucking damn if that's what he's ordered. I absolutely will not—"

Someone whose voice Hermione could barely make out cut across Malfoy's. She knew then that he must be speaking to someone through what was probably the Floo network. She leaned in closer, the shell of her ear nearly touching the door as she tried to hear more snatches of conversation.

"…as bad as you're making it out to be. You'll be paid handsomely for your agreement." The voice sounded vaguely familiar to Hermione, but before she could try to place its source, Malfoy was speaking again, and loudly.

"Do you really think that I need even _more_ money than I've already got?" Malfoy sounded as bad-tempered as he had the night he'd taken her from Nurmengard.

"Regardless of how much money you have need of or not," the voice responded in the same placating manner as before, "You've got no choice but to agree."

"_I've got no choice_?" Malfoy repeated, his voice growing louder by the second. Hermione cringed. She could only imagine the murderous expression that was probably claiming his features at the moment. "Try giving me another fucking ultimatum and we'll talk about choices."

Whomever Malfoy was conversing with let out a sigh—clearly this was not the first time he'd encountered his temper.

"Don't hex the messenger, Draco. These are not my laws and I did not help them come to pass into fruition, whatever you may be assuming. It is your duty—"

"Duty?" Malfoy let out a cruel, cold laugh. Hermione shivered at the sound of it, but she pressed closer to the door still, too absorbed by the conversation to pull away, though she had little idea of what they could possibly be talking about. She was mostly enamored with the fact that someone was brave enough—or foolish, depending on how one looked at it—to speak to Malfoy in that reprimanding tone. "Don't sit there on your high horse and tell me about duty when duty is what I live, breathe, eat and drink every single goddamned day of my life. Don't you fucking tell me about duty now that Lucius is dead and all of his affairs I'm now to handle since he's passed. Don't tell me about duty when he involved himself in the most absurd—"

"You are misunderstanding me." That familiar voice was still as calm as it had been when Hermione had first started to listen. She couldn't see how whoever it was could still be so patient when she herself felt like slapping Malfoy across the face and yelling at him until her vocal chords gave out.

"Explain yourself better, then," Malfoy snarled and Hermione could hear, quite audibly, the sound of feet moving against wood. He must have been pacing, and heavily at that.

"The Law clearly states—" The voice began again, but was cut off by a noise that Hermione was sure she'd never heard a human make before. It was somewhere between a scream and a growl and she would swear that she could feel that same anger burrow deep inside of herself, latching onto ribs and intestine and stomach. Hermione reared her head back from the door, her heart pounding almost painfully in her chest. She should leave now. If Malfoy was this angry and he had even the slightest feeling that someone was outside listening, she'd be dead.

But she wasn't a Gryffindor for naught.

And she wanted to hear about this Law that Malfoy and the voice were carrying on about. She wanted to know what it was that was making him so angry that _she_ could feel it.

Hermione rolled her small shoulders back and leaned in yet again—though leaning in to hear better was clearly unneeded as soon as Malfoy began to speak again.

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE LAW, DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? I DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS. I DON'T FUCKING WANT THIS. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? GO TO THEM. WRITE THEM. FUCKING SEND THEM A HOWLER AND TELL THEM THAT I WILL NOT GO THROUGH WITH IT. SHOW UP IN PERSON IF THAT ISN'T ENOUGH TO GET IT THROUGH THEIR THICK SKULLS."

Merlin, he was so angry. That kind of anger could injure, maybe even kill.

Inexplicably, Hermione thought then of his eyes, thought of them the evening he'd taken her from Nurmengard, when he had told her, quite smoothly, that he'd cause her pain if he had to. They had been the most interesting shade of gray—like rolling clouds, gathering before a particularly violent storm. They had been so controlled and so _dark_ and it had felt to Hermione as if she were being pulled in by the force of his gaze, lost out at sea. She thought of his eyes and wondered if they looked like that now.

The corners of her lips were shaking and her palms were growing slick with sweat. But still, she stayed. Still, she listened.

"Draco, you're being unreasonable. It isn't as bad as you think it—"

And then Malfoy did something that was infinitely worse than shouting bloody murder.

Hermione no longer wondered whether his eyes resembled that same striking color of gray that they had at Nurmengard. His voice took on that low, dangerous tone to it that made every single fine hair on the nape of Hermione's neck stand up on end. She was transfixed by it, however, as she had been that night, as she had been two days ago, and leaned in closer, the soft tones of his voice frightening her in a way that idle threats and screaming in her face and calling her nasty names could not.

"I can't. I won't. You know how I feel about her. She's—"

"I know," replied the voice, seemingly unperturbed by the abrupt change in Malfoy's tenor. "But you do not have a choice. You know what the penalty is if you refuse. And there will be nothing I can do about it, for _either_ of your sakes."

_Who?_

There was a silence so long that Hermione thought Malfoy had disconnected his Floo. For a few agonizingly noiseless minutes, all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears and the inhaling and exhaling of her own lungs. Though she was still holding onto the laundry, the bundle of clothing was all but forgotten in her arms. Hermione was just about to take a small step back to ready herself to peer down into the keyhole of the door, but then Malfoy was speaking again and all thoughts concerning trying to get a look at whatever was happening in the study had left her mind.

"What do I have to do, then?"

It wasn't his question that widened Hermione's eyes, but rather the pleading note that claimed his voice now. She'd never heard him sound like this before—desperate almost, as if whomever he was asking the question had the only solution in the entire world.

"Stop fighting it," the nameless voice commanded, though in a gentler way than Hermione would have thought possible. "I know this is less than an ideal situation for you, but this is the only way your safety will be ensured."

"It's not my safety I'm worried about," Malfoy replied, steel in his voice.

There were a few more murmurings then that Hermione couldn't really hear but she felt as if she'd heard enough; her mind was reeling. What was the Law? That was her biggest question. It clearly couldn't be anything good if Malfoy had put up such a fight in the beginning about it and it had to be worse, still, if he had realized that he had no choice but to abide by it.

And who else had they been speaking about? For one fleeting moment, Hermione thought it might have been her, but there was no way in Hell that Malfoy cared that much about keeping her safe to a degree where he was willing to, from the sound of it, risk his own life or jeopardize his own happiness.

Not for her, surely.

Never for her.

Not that she expected him to. Their sides were drawn and set. They no longer lived in a world where the kind of prejudice that had been bred into him since before his birth was punishable. Since Voldemort had won the war, really, everything concerning Muggleborns and the pureblooded way of life had been rewritten and made law. Hermione was sure that it was probably one of _those_ new laws that had Malfoy unwilling to cooperate.

But he'd conceded in the end, hadn't he? Hermione wasn't that surprised that he'd given in eventually. That was how it was now. Concede, or die. That was the unofficially official law of the New World Order that Voldemort was hoping to establish. And there was nothing she could do to stop it, at least not while she was trapped in Malfoy Manor without a way of trying to get a message to the outside.

Merlin, she felt so powerless!

She thought now—and not for the first time—of Harry. If only she knew where he was. If only there were some way that she could send him a message. If only there were some way of knowing that he was alright. But she hadn't heard from him in a little less than three years. Not since a few weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts. Not since he'd disappeared from the Forbidden Forest that night, but not without Voldemort first having obliterated the piece of the horcrux residing in Harry. Apparently Voldemort hadn't felt the need to bring his body when he'd informed the rest of them early that morning that he'd won. That Harry had died. And _then_ several of his Death Eaters had gone back to take the body.

Except there hadn't been one.

Hermione remembered the pandemonium that had broken out on the grounds of the ancient school like it was yesterday. While there had been relieved crying and shouting at the discovery of Harry's body going missing—because of _course_ Harry hadn't died—Hermione and a select few others which included Neville, Luna, Ron and Ginny had made a run for it in the ensuing chaos. They had managed to escape and at the right moment too, for they had heard days afterwards that Voldemort, having given the news that Harry's body was no longer where he had left it, had taken his infernal anger out on the lot who had—foolishly, Hermione had thought—stayed.

The ones who had managed to escape—because they hadn't been the only ones, thankfully, were now on the run, and were now some of the most wanted witches and wizards in the whole of the country. Over the past several years their small numbers had dwindled even further due to captures and deaths, but Hermione had been and continued to be thoroughly impressed by the fact that there was still a resistance going on at all and that the Light had not let the Dark snuff it out completely. While that flame burned on, Hermione could not get rid of her hope. None of them could.

Because right after they had escaped, right after they'd decided that staying in one place for longer than a few days was more dangerous to them than Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts or wild hippogriffs, there had been so little hope. The days were long and hot and filled with nothing. No news of Harry, no news _from_ Harry himself. Just running, just constantly looking over her shoulder, just deciding where to pack up and go to next. Just more and more of the same boring, nearly hopeless plight.

There had been a time, after, when doubt had begun to take hold and settle itself over all of them like a second skin, when they had begun to entertain the idea that Harry really _had_ died that night and that some unspeakable creature that dwelled in the Forest had snatched his body before Voldemort's followers could get back to it. That had almost been the end to everyone's hope.

But then, not a day after they had all sat down round the fire and had this conversation, Hermione had received a small letter, signed by no one, delivered by an owl she'd never seen before in her life. There had been five words written on it, in writing that Hermione knew like she knew _Hogwarts, A History_.

"_I open at the close_."

And then she had known. They all had.

Suddenly the days hadn't seemed so long or so fruitless. Suddenly they had had purpose. Suddenly the danger that was at their heels seemed more apparent, more ominous. Suddenly it was absolutely _imperative_ that they kept up the chase, that they try to find others who shared their ideals. In time, their side grew, but it never got so large as to convince them that they could return to London, to the Ministry, to Voldemort. Not yet. Not until Harry came back to them. In the meantime, for the next three years, they did just that. What they could.

And then she had been caught.

Hermione cringed inwardly to think of it, of how unaware they'd all been. It hurt then and it hurt now to know she'd brought about the deaths of nearly all of those who had been in the small camp but her mind quickly rejected that crushing, weighty pain—not now. Not here. She would not mourn them here.

She took a step back, a small one, no longer hearing any voices on the other side of the closed door. The washing had to get done. She'd been lucky not to have been found by Narcissa or Malfoy or anyone else, and Hermione knew that by lingering her chances of not being caught and reprimanded continued to shrink.

Hermione was just turning away when the sound of a door unlocking met her ears and there was no stopping the horrified look that claimed her features as the knob turned, as her heart fell into her stomach, as the air _whooshed_ out of her lungs, as her throat ran dry, as gray eyes met brown.

For a moment, all Hermione could hear was the beating of her heart.

Malfoy looked altogether completely surprised to see her standing there, but that didn't last nearly as long as she would have liked. Next second—because fuck, he was so _fast_—he had somehow gotten her backed up to the opposite wall that faced the study's door, had knocked the bundle of laundry from her arms, had gotten his wand out and was now digging it into her throat while his body—lean but strong; Merlin, he was all muscle, wasn't he?—pinned her against the flat partition. Hermione was suddenly aware of how _fragile_ she was—just bones and skin, really, and he was leaning hard into her, so hard her angel bones were digging into the wall behind her.

Her throat was too dry for her to make any other kind of noise except for a surprised gasp. It tore through her windpipe roughly, painfully.

"How much did you hear?" Malfoy growled, his eyes darkening. Hermione sensed a storm coming and her brain scrambled for a made-up answer but the truth came first.

"Just… just the end," she breathed, cursing still her dry throat while trying not to struggle but, in the end, unable to control her body's 'fight or flight' response. Malfoy was not having this: he pressed more of himself onto her, trapping her. Her lungs were working overtime to send oxygen to her brain and heart. She suddenly couldn't inhale fast enough.

Air was sandpaper to her dehydrated throat.

Malfoy became completely still after she'd answered but he didn't pull away from her. Her eyes were wide open and watching him. She wondered desperately what he was thinking, what he was going to do to her.

She saw him narrow his eyes as he more than likely replayed the conversation in his head, skipping towards what part of the discussion she'd told him she'd heard. He didn't seem to like what he realized to be true. Hermione was once again reminded of how _breakable_ and utterly defenseless she was, especially since she was without a wand. She tried to move again but it felt as if he were leaning into her _more_, pressing closer to her all the time and digging his wand even harder into her skin.

She tried to make it seem as if this had no effect on her.

As if _he_ had no effect on her.

In the end, what came next was not what she expected at all.

"I'm sorry."

_What_?

Hermione tilted her head up, lips parted, breathing fast and hard, her cheeks flushing rose.

"I'm _sorry_." He said it again, almost imploringly, nearly begging her.

She couldn't understand. This wasn't _right_ and why was he _apologizing_? _She_ had been the one at fault for listening in on what had clearly been a private conversation. _She_ had been the one to overstep her boundaries and do something that she knew was expressly forbidden yet Malfoy was apologizing to _her_? Hermione's ears were ringing and she parted her lips as if to speak, feeling her confusion claim her features and twist them into a frown. What was he playing at? Hermione closed her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut as Malfoy dug his wand into her even harder. She knew it would bruise.

Everything bruised.

She opened her mouth again to form the word she thought, because what he said wasn't right, it wasn't _him_; Malfoy apologized to no one. She was scrambling again, trying to find footholds in the foundation that made him up, trying to ascertain an answer that made some fucking _sense_, but Malfoy was too fast again and he had moved away from her, had actually _lowered his wand_ and Hermione experienced relief that lasted for approximately two seconds before his hand—pale white and lethal, like lightening—appeared out of nowhere and collided with the side of her face so hard that she could taste his skin in her mouth and then all she knew was pain and heat and darkness and she thought impossibly, weakly, _no_, but it wasn't enough, was never enough, and then he had caught her other cheek with the same hand and stars danced and blurred together behind her eyelids, great whirling bolts of color and light, and then there was nothing, nothing at all.

XXX

**Author's note**: I do hope that you all will forgive me for the shorter length of this chapter but I really didn't like trying to go into anything else after what happens here because trust me, I tried. I still may break up the dinner party chapter into two but I haven't really decided for sure. I guess it'll just depend on what all I want to happen and how long it takes for me to get there. This will probably be the last update for a while because I have classes and rehearsals and papers that need writing. I'm also working on a _Hunger Games_ one-shot that I hope to have up within the next week, so that'll slow me up a bit. In the meantime you should skim my favorited stories and authors lists because I think I have pretty good taste. ;) Thank you for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting this story. –K

XXX


	4. Interlude

Skin Deep

_By: Krystina Malfoy_

XXX

**Author's note**: I sincerely apologize for the lengthy wait concerning this story. College is draining the life out of me what with tests and extracurricular activities and I barely have time to sleep let alone continue this story. I hope you'll forgive me for this tiny chapter—I wanted to give you something to tide you over until I could continue on with the next installment since I have no idea when I'll be able to finish/post it. The next month or so is going to be crazy busy for me but hopefully when my final play for the semester ends (which is in about three weeks) I'll be able to write and update more frequently. Thank you for your patience. If I could bake you cookies and cakes and pies, I would.

XXX

**Interlude**

"I didn't mean to do it."

Upon arriving at Malfoy Manor and allowing a serviceable house-elf to take his traveling cloak and walking cane, these were the first words that the Inquisitor was subjected to hearing as soon as Draco Malfoy greeted him. Truth be told, it wasn't what anyone would call a proper greeting in the first place, but the Inquisitor, who overlooked so much already in favor of the young man who stood before him, disregarded proper etiquette as well as he subsequently ushered Draco away from Narcissa and down a wide, airy hall just off the immaculate dining room.

"Didn't mean to do what, Draco?" He couldn't help the dread that chilled the back of his neck at the other male's foreboding words. The Inquisitor was not exactly a man that could be frightened into flight, but like most, he didn't particularly like to deal with messes, complications, or both.

Draco clutched his hands into fists and spun away from the Inquisitor, teeth bared. It was silent except for the sound of the young man's shoes clicking softly against the marble floor as he began to pace. The Inquisitor watched with a mild kind of interest, knowing to keep as calm and collective as he possibly could given the height of Draco's agitation. It was always a better idea for at least one of them to hold themselves together when the other lost it. Save for one instance, it was always the Inquisitor who was able to keep his head planted firmly between his shoulders.

"Draco?"

"I hit her. I fucking—Merlin, I _hit _her. I put my hands on her. I—"

The Inquisitor made to speak, but Draco cut clear across him before he was even able to get the first syllable out.

"I promised myself that I wouldn't. I _promised_." Something about Draco's tone gave the Inquisitor pause. He sounded almost whining, and that resounded within the Inquisitor, who now looked to Draco with eyebrows slightly raised. He knew, of course—how Draco felt about her, the prisoner, the slave, the girl. It hadn't been too difficult to piece that puzzle together really; the Inquisitor had a rather keen eye and Draco wasn't exactly a professional when it came to hiding his emotions. Still, despite that, despite _knowing_, the Inquisitor knew that he and Draco didn't have much choice. What he had to say wasn't going to be well-received by Draco at all, but it was necessary. Crucial.

"You cannot treat her any other way."

Clearly this was not what Draco had expected, but before the young man could say anything in retaliation or confusion or anger or even all three, the Inquisitor was speaking again, a bit louder, a firmness in his voice that spoke of authority, wisdom, and even, if one listened closely enough, a fatherly tone.

"Now, _wait_. Don't go throwing yourself about and acting as if this is the worst thing. The Ministry officials coming tonight either own one or know someone that does. They will expect to see her in a certain condition."

It was obvious that Draco was not finding this information to his liking at all.

"But I could always say that I healed her, give her potions—"

The Inquisitor shook his head. "And that would make them question why you would repair whatever damage you've caused in the first place. It would make you seem weak. Soft. Apologetic."

"But I'm not," Draco began hotly, his cheeks beginning to flush. The Inquisitor could feel it coming, the younger man's temper. It was like the proverbial calm before the storm. "I'm not any of those things. I just refuse to put my fucking hands on her just because I can. It isn't right. It isn't fucking ethical. It's sick—"

"But you don't have a choice. Not this time." And before Draco could speak again-because he was opening his mouth-the Inquisitor stepped forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, his fingertips digging harshly into skin and tendons. "Listen to me very closely, Draco. I've risked a lot, choosing to help you and her and your whole lot, because you're right about ethics, about morals, about it all. What's happening, what they're doing, hell—what _I'm _doing is sick and sadistic and cruel. I go to bed ill with it every night. I dream about it, about them, about what I've done. I've headaches and a recurring ulcer and I have no idea what's in store for me in the afterlife because of all the wrongs I've committed. But there's only so much power and influence—so much _control_ that I have over certain people and departments both at the Ministry and outside of it. I cannot continue to protect you if you cannot bring yourself to understand that some sacrifices must be made. Of course it's going to be difficult. Of course you're not always going to like it. That's what makes it a sacrifice. It might hurt you, it might bloody well kill you, but you need to get a grip and open your eyes and make a choice. Because if you don't, she will die. And there won't be a damn thing I can do about it. I'm not going to continue to sugarcoat things for you. We are still in the middle of a war. You know how valuable she is. You know what having her on our side means. Luckily for you, the Malfoy name is still respected and held in high regard. That's probably about the _only_ reason why they haven't come here with a warrant for her immediate arrest and removal from your home to be questioned further at Nurmengard."

Something dark flashed in Draco's eyes at the mention of the prisoner camp, but he said nothing. He wasn't even struggling. There were lines of defiance etched into his face and his hands were clenched tight into fists, but he was listening. And that was enough.

"It isn't a question of why or what anymore, Draco. You need to do as you're told or you put her in far more danger than I think you realize. You told me once that there is hardly anything in this world more important to you than her safety. I know it goes against everything you now stand for, but we don't have time for unsure footsteps. It's sink or swim." With that, the Inquisitor let him go.

It was quiet after he finished speaking. The Inquisitor wasn't so much worried about the silence as he was about Draco, who now looked pale and frankly, a little bit worried. As time continued to pass, though, the Inquisitor could see something shift in his demeanor. There was a new hardness, a flicker of understanding—a choice being made.

Finally, Draco nodded. Once. It was curt and polite and very brief. But it was enough.

"I suppose I should find her before the dinner starts and _Crucio_ her a few times, yeah?" There was a very severe bitterness to his tone, and the Inquisitor did his best to ignore this and the sad, ironic little curl of Draco's lips when he replied in kind.

"Probably wouldn't hurt. And if you've already had her patched up from before, you might as well redo those as well."

Draco looked as if he very much wanted to reach for his wand and try out a few hexes on the Inquisitor himself first, but after he swallowed something that looked very large and very painful, he gave a swift nod and spun around on his heel to stalk off in the opposite direction, hands now buried wrist-deep in his pockets. Just before he disappeared entirely from view, the Inquisitor cleared his throat and chose his next words very carefully before speaking to Draco's retreating back.

"It's for the Greater Good, Draco. The _true_ Greater Good."

It was quiet, and it took the Inquisitor a moment, but he felt a great sense of relief when Draco's answering reply reached him.

"I know."

XXX

**Author's note: **Oh look, another one! So that's it for now. I shouldn't even be writing fanfiction right now when I've got a pile of homework that's almost reached my ceiling, but I'm feeling generous and, okay, a wee bit guilty. Again, terribly sorry about the length and lack of any actual, well, _action _and measurable plot advancement, but it's one in the morning and my fingers said _stop writing now_ so I'm listening. I know I talked before about a _Hunger Games _one-shot that I'm working on. For those that are curious it should be posted soon, or will be before I update this again. Thank you for reading, as always. –K.

XXX


	5. III

Skin Deep

_By: Krystina Malfoy_

XXX

**Author's Note: **I know, I know. I promised to update this a lot sooner but my summer completely took off in that I'm actually kind of really social now and one of my close friends suckered me into doing a musical that he was directing. Ergo, no time to work on this fic or, for those of you that were wondering, the _Hunger_ _Games_ one that's sitting half-finished on my desktop. Let me just not promise an update and maybe they'll come more quickly? Again, my sincerest apologies. I know how annoying it can be as the reader to wait months and months and months for an update to come, so. I'll spare the details and get on with the story. Here's chapter three! A review would be lovely, if you're able.

XXX

**Chapter Three**

"_Here, Miss! Velda brought the potions to make Miss good as new."_

"_Thank you," Hermione managed to choke out, blinking fast at the sudden brightness that invaded her vision. She brought her hands up to her face and rubbed at her closed eyelids, hoping that would help her pupils adjust more quickly to the light. _

_By the time she'd pulled her hands away, Velda was already lifting a spoonful of some unidentifiable dark grey potion up to her mouth. Out of instinct—because Hermione had learned a while ago not to trust substances offered to her of which she didn't know their origins, no matter that she already felt as if she could trust Velda—Hermione sealed her lips closed and tilted her head as far away as she could, though the muscles in her neck protested this movement almost immediately. Hermione let out a startled sigh at the unexpected ache before the memories of what happened just before she passed out came rushing back with such force that she experienced vertigo all over again. _

_She remembered Malfoy apologizing to her—for what, she had no idea, but she remembered him saying that he was sorry, had repeated it, in fact, several times before—before he had hit her. And not once, but twice. At least, that she could remember. He might have done more to her after she'd passed out, if her throbbing head was any indication. Yet, the more she tried to focus her attention to what had taken place before Malfoy had literally hit her so hard that she'd passed out from the pain of it, the more it slipped away from her until she was left with nothing except a pounding migraine and the memory of Malfoy's tortured expression imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. _

_And so focused on this was Hermione that she had relaxed her mouth and Velda, sensing an opportunity, was quick to take advantage of this. As soon as Hermione's lips parted, the small house elf pushed the spoonful of potion into the witch's mouth and made sure that Hermione swallowed it all before removing the eating utensil and setting it down on the counter. She ignored Hermione's indignation at having been force-fed the potion and hummed an off-key tune as she sealed up the potion and reached for another, smaller jar. _

"_That won't be necessary, Velda."_

_The house elf looked almost surprised to see the Malfoy heir apparent framed by the doorway in the kitchen, but she backed away from Hermione almost immediately and resealed the lid on the jar that she had recently picked up. With a snap of her wrinkled fingers, the jars and vials of potions had disappeared and Velda was quick to follow by way of them, though she did give Malfoy a look that Hermione was unable to decipher before exiting the kitchen. Something about his commanding tone had made Velda all too eager to comply with her master's wishes and this fact was not lost on Hermione, who was currently rubbing her temples with her fingertips despite that the pain had left them._

_Meanwhile, Malfoy was looking at Hermione as she was used to seeing him look at her back at Hogwarts: like she was something thoroughly disgusting that he had happened to step on with his expensive shoes and had no idea how he had picked up the misfortune. Hermione felt his stare burn into her skin but she didn't look at him. Couldn't. Instead, as he began to cross the room in slow, yet surefooted steps, Hermione curled her fingers into loose fists, which she placed into her lap, and stared stonily ahead. _

_The potion that Velda had given to her had done wonders for the soreness in her neck as well, but she could tell without having to touch her face that her skin was tender; perhaps it was even bruised. Something close to hate formed a lump in her throat as Malfoy continued his advances. Hermione found that she was nearly choking on this feeling each time she swallowed or inhaled and worse, she had no idea what Malfoy's intentions were, but she didn't like the fact that he had somehow pulled his wand out and had it trained on her._

"_Look at me, Granger." Gone was the softness, the pleading. His voice was as she had always remembered it: cold and unfeeling, hard and forceful. Had she dreamed that it had ever been different? _

_Her mind threw images at her in a sudden, dizzying whirl of color, as if trying to prove her wrong: Malfoy coming closer to her, Malfoy kneeling in front of her, Malfoy drying her off, Malfoy the night he had come for her at Nurmengard and the look on his face before he had Apparated the both of them back to the Manor, Malfoy when he had caught her eavesdropping…_

_It didn't matter, Hermione now realized. Perhaps that kindness had been an act, something that had been forced upon him by powers he wasn't able to fight. Whatever the reason for his actions before, he had either realized that being kind to her was not going to solve his problems or he had been informed to stop. Either way, it didn't matter. Or, really, it shouldn't have mattered to her. Hermione was bothered by the fact that she even gave thought to his sudden change in behavior at all._

_And she still wasn't looking at him. Didn't realize that she wasn't until his voice cut through her reveries and suddenly he was standing right in front of her and she was very much aware of him and the wand he was pointing directly at her chest. _

"_I said, look at me."_

_She did, finally, bringing her dark eyes up to his face. Hermione realized that she hadn't really looked at him since being forcibly brought to the Manor and took the opportunity to do so now, though she had been there for weeks and certainly had had ample enough time to study her captor. _

_Her first thought was that he looked older, but then, they all did, didn't they? He had new lines around his eyes and mouth that she was sure hadn't been there the last time she had seen him prior to being captured—which had been the Battle at Hogwarts. He had cut his hair however and no longer wore it slicked back the way he had in school. Instead it lay slightly tousled on top of his head. His body appeared to be leaner as well. His shoulders were broader, though his waist was narrow. There was a bit of pale stubble at his chin and cheeks. And though his face still retained some of the pointedness that he had had in his youth, most of his facial features had matured and grown leaner. He was absurdly handsome, Hermione realized. _

_It wasn't a fact that particularly mattered, but it was still a surprise to her. Her gaze stayed on Malfoy though it made her uncomfortable and she wished that he would do whatever it was that he had come to do already so that she wouldn't have to keep looking at his eyes. Despite however much his body and face had changed, his eyes had remained the same. And even if asked, Hermione wouldn't have been able to describe their exact color. When he was annoyed or angry, there were times where she would have sworn that Draco's grey eyes were almost violet at the edge of his irises. _

_Like now. _

"_Which potion did Velda give you?"_

"_I—it was grey," Hermione replied immediately, surprised that this was the first question he had asked and not fully understanding what that meant._

_Malfoy looked contemplative after she had given her answer, though this only lasted for a second or two before comprehension set in. He took the tiniest of steps closer to her and Hermione, having nowhere else to go, didn't move. In the back of her head, however, an alarm bell was ringing._

_Malfoy's hand was trembling. It was very slight, but since Hermione was doing her best not to move at all except to take air into her lungs, she was much more attuned to his movements and suddenly felt a cold dread pool in her stomach. _

"_Shit," he murmured under his breath. He sounded too calm, though his wand continued to tremble in his grip. "Well, it can't be helped now."_

"_What can't be helped?" Hermione inquired, her curiosity getting the better of her. Her eyes were glued to his face. _

_Malfoy blinked, seeming to realize suddenly that he wasn't alone and that, worse, she was his current company. His gaze sharpened. He tightened his hold on his wand. _

"_Nothing," he growled through clenched teeth. He seemed to be facing some sort of inner turmoil but Hermione couldn't be sure. Once again, she was suddenly hyperaware of their proximity, and the wand in his hand, and the way her heart was beating much too quickly against her sternum, bringing a flush to her cheeks and creating a buzzing in her ears. She had nothing to defend herself with, and knew that even if she did, Malfoy would easily best her in a fight, physical or not. _

_She wondered what it meant that she was almost willing to try anyway._

_He was so close now that she could feel the tip of his wand pressing into her collarbone. It was warm. Hermione opened her mouth to speak again, to try to distract Malfoy from what he was about to do because she suddenly had the feeling that whatever it was that he had come here for wasn't good and in fact she was abruptly and completely afraid, but before she could as so much inhale, the sound of ringing door chimes reached them and Malfoy rolled his shoulders back, his expression hard and revealing nothing to her. _

"Crucio_."_

_Above the din of voices greeting each other in the cavernous foyer of Malfoy Manor, the distinct sound of screaming could be heard. _

XXX

That had been an hour ago, and Hermione would never associate the word kind with Malfoy ever again. Not if she could help it, at least. She had woken up (after he'd _Crucio_'d her several times and cut her open with a few slicing hexes) standing upright against the east wall in the spacious dining room, bleeding and bruised and wearing clothes that she never would have chosen for herself. Honestly, what she was wearing couldn't even be classified as clothing: it seemed to be some sort of black bodysuit with thin straps and felt as if it were so sheer that it was see-through, if the air on her breasts was any indication. Each time she inhaled, Hermione could feel the ribbing of whatever it was she had been dressed in digging into her sides and abdomen. Some sort of corset?

Hermione grit her teeth together and tried to shake the hair out of her face in order to get a better view of her surroundings, but the soreness had returned to her neck and she mentally cursed herself and Malfoy in the same thought. Bad enough that humiliation was running rampant in her veins at the current situation she found herself in, because, as she tried to move her hand and found that she couldn't, she tried to turn her head as best as she could without pulling the attention in the room to her. She could see, out of her peripherals, chains restraining her. Bad enough. Yet Hermione couldn't bring herself to feel anything but anger at herself because if she hadn't have been so severely stupid, she wouldn't have gotten caught and brought here.

_Fuck_, she thought to herself again, despair filling the majority of her senses.

But she knew she had to be calm. Making a scene would probably only make things worse for her and things were, well, bad enough. Hermione clenched and unclenched her fingers for a few moments, debating with herself about her next course of action, though she knew she had very limited choices and probably very little time to make them. It was one thing for Malfoy to leave her somewhere private within the walls of the Manor to heal from what he had done to her. It was another thing entirely for him to have arranged for her to be placed in the dining room at what appeared to be a very important dinner party. She obviously could not get down from the wall without some sort of outside help and from the sounds of silver on china and the raucousness of the conversation going on in front of her, that wouldn't be happening for a while.

She wished she could _see_. Not for the first time, she cursed her hair and the fact that she hadn't shorn it all off when she had had the chance. Hermione didn't realize that she was still trying to get her wild curls out of her line of sight until she heard someone speak on her behalf about it.

"Looks like the little Mudblood could use some help," a gravelly voice wheezed, followed by a chorus of laughter and the scraping back of a chair.

Hermione immediately stilled. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, and not at all in a good way. The fine hairs at the back of her neck stood up as she braced herself for the inevitability of what was to come as the footsteps came closer and then stopped altogether. Whoever it was, she could feel their body heat cloak her skin as they stood there. Something close to irritation began to gnaw at her as time stretched on while whoever it was that had come to taunt her remained silent. Meanwhile, conversation had resumed again in the background, but she didn't like how quiet the intruder was. She found herself about to speak (a stupid thing to do, she knew, but the silence was _deafening_) when suddenly, her hair was pulled back rather painfully away from her face.

Gasping, Hermione blinked several times, trying to get her vision to focus, and then, when she saw who it was, bared her teeth and let out something that closely resembled a growl, much to her cajoler's amusement.

Dolohov.

The next few things seemed to happen simultaneously and in what could only be within the span of a few short seconds, though if someone would have questioned Hermione about it after the fact, she would have said that it felt like everything had moved in slow motion.

She was so horrified and disgusted to see the man who had almost sexually abused her that before she could stop to think about the repercussions of her next actions, Hermione gathered all the excess saliva in her mouth and hurled it straight at him. It landed partially on his nose and cheek and Dolohov seemed so surprised for a moment that she had even dared to do such a foolish thing to him that he did nothing but stand there, staring back at her, going slack-jawed with surprise.

Next moment, however, there was yelling and then the scraping back of more chairs on the polished marble floor and then Dolohov was getting closer and all Hermione could think about was Malfoy, where the _hell_ was Malfoy, and then she felt a sharp pain sear across her face and then there was screaming, a high pitched wail that shook her deep down to her core and Hermione wasn't afraid, miraculously, but Merlin, could the screaming stop? Was it Narcissa? Through the blindingly white hot pain, Hermione tried to search for the hostess but saw that Narcissa Malfoy was standing up and she wasn't screaming, though her alabaster skin seemed to be even paler than usual and Hermione's eyes looked around the room wildly, searching for that awful, godforsaken noise until she realized that it was her, she was the one wailing like the dead had come back to life.

She closed her mouth, swallowed. It felt like someone had taken a square of sandpaper to her vocal chords, but Hermione didn't back down from Dolohov—it wasn't as if she could anyway—who had now taken out his wand from the depths of his jet black dress robes and used one of its sleeves to wipe her saliva from his face. He had used a slicing hex on her, that much was clear. It wasn't a very deep cut, but it was long, stretching from her earlobe to her chin, right above her jaw. Hermione could taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood in her mouth, felt it running down her face and neck. In a moment of pure vanity, she wondered what she looked like, hanging from Malfoy's wall with Death Eaters and other dangerous Ministry officials surrounding her, covered in blood and bruises.

"Filthy Mudblood," he hissed under his breath, steadying his wand hand as he pointed the magical instrument directly at her heart. "You'll pay for that one, you will, you little bitch."

"Dolohov," said another familiar voice. Hermione's gaze instantly lifted and settled onto—but no, it couldn't be, could it? The Inquisitor. He was standing up, too, wand raised and directed towards Hermione's attacker, looking apologetic and annoyed all at once. He actually looked quite imposing, though Hermione supposed that was part of the job. He was a tall man, taller than Hermione had remembered upon her removal at Nurmengard, with dark hair that was starting to grey at the temples and startlingly clear blue eyes. He had somewhat of a beard but it was kept well groomed and laid very neatly against an olive-toned complexion. His nose appeared to be very fine and straight, though right now it was wrinkled in apparent disgust.

"No," Dolohov sneered, his wand raising just a bit higher at the interruption. His gaze never left Hermione's. "No, Inquisitor, not this time. This little whore needs to be taught a lesson."

"You're being quite unreasonable—"

"I WILL NOT TOLERATE DISRESPECT FROM MUDBLOODS!" Dolohov growled, his words sinking into Hermione's skin like a tattoo, even though Dolohov had whirled away from her to face the Inquisitor instead. She shivered and blinked hard against the feeling, her mind scrambling for some way out of this even though she knew that there wasn't one.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

All movement in the room stopped. Hermione didn't know whether to be relieved or frightened to see Malfoy appear quite suddenly in the dining hall, but after taking one look at his face, she realized that if she were capable of it, she would feel sorry for Dolohov.

Dolohov—who instantly lowered his wand, took a few hasty steps away from her and remained silent. By the expression on his twisted features he seemed to be remembering what Malfoy had done to him at Nurmengard and was not in any hurry to relive the experience.

"I asked you a question," Malfoy stated firmly as he walked further into the cavernous dining hall, his voice amplified by the room's nearly perfect acoustics. He looked frightening, as if his skin and hair and eyes were all actual electricity, though Hermione knew it was the magic in his atoms buzzing together, creating the effect. Anger, murderous, flashed like fever in his eyes, which were trained solely on Dolohov.

The Inquisitor, sensing danger, parted from the other diners and made to reach out to lay a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, but the latter seemed to sense this and stopped him before the older male could make contact.

"Don't," Malfoy snarled, stepping past the Inquisitor and coming forward to where Hermione was chained and Dolohov stood.

"Answer me."

"She spit on me," Dolohov fumed, sparks issuing from the end of his wand.

"You seem to have forgotten a conversation we had several weeks ago," Malfoy said smoothly, as if Dolohov hadn't spoken at all. He began to roll up the sleeves of his neatly pressed dress robes. Hermione watched him closely, holding her breath, something small and furiously bright building in her chest, something which she tried to ignore.

"I _didn't_," the Death Eater argued, sounding almost petulant. Malfoy only lifted a pale eyebrow before continuing with both his words and actions.

"Then kindly remind me as to why you put your hands on her when I warned you that if you ever chose to do so again no matter the reason or cause, I would personally see to it myself that you would never be able to put your hands on another living creature for the rest of your pathetic and miserable excuse for a life?" Malfoy had finished with his sleeves. Hermione didn't realize that he had not had his wand out before until he removed it from one of the pockets of his dress robes. He touched the item almost lovingly, his fingertips lingering on the slender stick of wood like a caress.

"You are a child," Dolohov seethed, suddenly seeming to remember exactly how old and experienced he was in relation to the only child of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. "You are nothing but a spoiled little brat who has let the Dark Lord's favor of him get to his head and I will have respect from you, boy, I _will_."

"Will you now?" Malfoy cocked his head to the side as if he were genuinely interested in the answer to his question, but there was something about the way the corners of his mouth tightened at Dolohov's clear insults and Hermione, without behind able to explain how she knew, could sense the climax of this showdown nearing.

"Yes." And Dolohov, seeming to sense the climax fast approaching as well, made up his mind. He lifted his wand and pointed it towards Malfoy. "For too long others have let you run rampant round this godforsaken Manor as if you—"

But it looked to Hermione as if Malfoy had finally had enough. She would have given credit to Dolohov for lasting even this long without Malfoy hexing him into oblivion if it hadn't been for Dolohov's utterly cruel disposition and the things he had put her through both at Nurmengard and before they'd arrived at the camp, but as it was, Hermione could only watch, wide-eyed, as Malfoy lifted his wand and wordlessly performed whatever hex it was that had Dolohov screaming like a child and writhing around on the floor, his features twisted.

It was only after the fact, really, that Hermione noticed all the blood and the severed stumps that now served as the Death Eater's hands.

XXX

**Author's Note:** Okay, so this is actually only the first part of chapter three, but it's so long that I decided to break it up into two chapters and I didn't want to keep you all waiting any longer with this because it's already been a century. I'll do my best to update with the next chapter as soon as possible. Thanks for reading! xo


End file.
